


Corvo Bianco

by RedEris



Series: White Wolf White Knight [4]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 14:14:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15269232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedEris/pseuds/RedEris
Summary: Geralt slowly explores what Corvo Bianco means to him.





	Corvo Bianco

“Thus, we have decided you shall receive the deed to a vineyard--Corvo Bianco--and a sum of coin. You will doubtless consider this adequate. Title to the vineyard shall be given to you at once.” Suiting actions to words, Anarietta gestured to the page approaching with a deed bearing her seal and a heavy iron key.

As the weight of the key settled in Geralt’s hand, he stared at it in disbelief. He felt a bubble of hysterical laughter form in his throat. That the first real property he’d ever owned should already be filled with corpses and a bit of his own blood-- He shoved the shock and the giggle back down his throat to be dealt with later, and turned his attention back to the case.

It took him two days to make it back to Corvo Bianco. For the first day, it was easy to tell himself that he was just that busy pursuing the case, not to mention the transcendent wonder of discovering that Regis was alive and well. Sleeping by the road, Roach hitched to a tree, was familiar and convenient and totally adequate. Even pleasant, in the balmy air of Toussaint. By late afternoon of the second day, though, Geralt could no longer deny to himself that he was avoiding the vineyard.

So he clucked to Roach and nudged her northward at the next splitting of the road.

He’d come at it from the east before, up the main road from the southwest and then veering back eastward. Today, he took the time to find the more direct route from the tourney grounds. Consequently, he didn’t see it at all until it was spread out below him, sprawling from the villa below him, out through the distant edges of the vineyards. He stood there, staring down at it blankly, until Roach shifted irritably under him.

“Sorry, girl,” he said, shifting his knees to give her permission to start down the switchbacks that ended in the villa’s sprawling courtyard. He saw only traces of the bloody mess he’d left before. He revised his estimation of Damien de la Tour’s efficiency upwards slightly.

As he coaxed a balky Roach across the short bridge into the yard, he was noticed, and someone went trotting hastily towards the main house. By the time he had Roach tied up and was unbuckling her girth, a man in glasses and a crisply starched ruff was standing rigidly at attention by the front door, smoothing down the front of his doublet. After a brief, undignified tussle with the man trying to take his saddle out of his hands, he grabbed his saddlebags and left Roach to the groom.

The man in glasses bowed stiffly as he approached, radiating officiousness.

“Welcome home, sir.”

Geralt felt himself slipping into some strange alternate reality where people called him “sir” and curried his horse for free--or was he still supposed to tip?-- and said things like “welcome home”.

“I am Barnabas-Basil Foulty. By order of the duchess, I shall serve you as majordomo of Corvo Bianco. I previously served with the Kniebihly family…”

Geralt felt himself glazing over under the onslaught of unfamiliar names, and held up a hand.

“Whoa, Barnabas-Basil.” Was that the right way to address him? What was the proper form of address for a majordomo? Eh. Fuck it. “One thing you oughta know--I’m not your typical landed gentleman. Truth be told, this is the first real property I’ve ever owned.”

Zoltan would have laughed his ass off. Ciri would, as soon as she heard. Barnabas-Basil (gods, what a mouthful) seemed delighted. If Geralt was understanding correctly, basically all he had to do was not die, and B.B. would be pleased to take care of the rest. Which, since he hardly even knew what “the rest” consisted of, was a huge relief. 

This was how it worked, though, wasn’t it? People had pieces of paper, or just titles, that said they were in charge, and then they sat on their asses and drank wine while people they looked down on did actual work. And now Barnabas-Basil, at least, clearly expected that Geralt would be the first kind of person. _That_ , he could not picture.

At least if B.B. had already cleaned bruxa guts out of the cellar, he probably wouldn’t faint the first time Geralt left giant centipede guts on the hall table. There must be more iron in the man than his fussy appearance would suggest.

The estate was more beautiful the more of it he saw. Neglected--fences in need of fixing, flaking paint, weeds where flowers once grew--but still beautiful. Geralt did the tour in an almost dreamlike state, walking through ivy-covered pergolas, low walls set with glazed tiles, sun-bleached grape trellises, the recently replanted vines still supple and green. By the time they got back to the front door, he was staring in morbid fascination at the part of him that wanted to roll up his sleeves right this minute and start truing up fence posts and clearing sheds. A nice stable for Roach for once, a workbench for him, maybe even some training equipment--

But he wasn’t staying here, of course. Was he? No, of course not. He was a witcher. He’d figure some way out of this “Beast of Beauclair” mess and if that didn’t get him killed or kicked out he’d let himself do a few easy jobs and enjoy Toussaint for a bit. Then back on the Path. Because he was a witcher, and that was what he was for.

Only witcher he’d ever known to “settle down” had died on Lambert’s sword in front of him. You couldn’t escape it, and he wouldn’t anyway. But maybe it’d be nice to pretend, just for a little while.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The wight’s foul brew still burning in his veins, he crouched to make himself smaller, and studied the old woman carefully. Her hair was lank, her skin spotted with age and hanging loosely on her gaunt form, but her eyes were huge and luminous, watching him fearfully.

“‘S alright. Not gonna hurt you,” he said.

“Eat,” she whispered tentatively. Then, a little more strongly, “I must eat.” He could see her legs tremble under her weight, hear her heart racing like a bird’s. He stood and took a step towards her. 

“Easy there. Gonna pick you up, alright?”

She watched him with those enormous glossy eyes, but made no move to stop him as he scooped her up. She weighed nothing. A fraction of what Ciri’s well-muscled form did.

“I’ll take you someplace safe.”

And he could, so he did. When he got back to Corvo Bianco, the guest bed that he’d agreed to send for wasn’t ready yet, so he tucked her into his own bed, and spread out his bedroll on the floor, in case she woke frightened and confused.

The next day, he told Marlene that she could stay as long as she needed to. Because it was his place, and he could do that if he wanted to.

~~~~~~~~~~~

“She’s not going to give up Syannah. You know that, right? She’s one of the stubbornest women I know, and that’s saying something.” Geralt leaned back on the wall, legs splayed in the dirt. Regis, perched on the wall above him, sighed.

“I have every reason to believe you, and yet we must find a way. Much as I detest the thought, I believe that without her, Dettlaff will do as he says. He has never shown the slightest inclination towards dissimulation--if he says he will do it, he intends to do it.”

“Yeah, I got that. Gotta say, Reg, your friend isn’t impressing me with his gentle ways so far.”

“I know,” Regis said, sounding painfully tired. “He has been betrayed, by one he considered a mate. I don’t know if I can explain to you what that means to a vampire. In a manner of speaking, one could say that his crime has been to trust unwisely.”

“That, and threaten to kill a whole city full of innocent people.”

“Yes, and that as well,” Regis replied, voice so uncharacteristically small that Geralt felt a pang of guilt for pushing him so hard.

“We’ll figure something out,” he offered. “In the morning. For now, I’m tired as shit, and I’m going ho--” he broke off, for the space of a blink, and finished _almost_ seamlessly, “home.” But Regis, of all people, would be bound to catch it.

If he did, he chose not to say anything, and so Geralt did go home, to Corvo Bianco. When he got there, B.B. had left a light burning in the front hall for him, and Marlene had placed an over-generous meal of sparkling water and cheese, three types of sausage, bread, figs, and pickled onions on the stand by his bed. Despite himself, he smiled.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“If--if I may permitted the familiarity of asking, what do you intend to do now?” B.B. held himself as stiffly as ever, but Geralt was becoming wise enough to his ways to catch the tension.

What would happen to B.B. if Geralt left? Would he just keep serving, only with nobody to notice or appreciate it? What of Marlene, with no one to force food on at all hours of the day? The estate obviously ran without him. Would he be missed? But still, there was that tension as B.B. held himself a trifle too still, waiting for Geralt’s answer.

The Beast of Beaclair was ‘dead’, Syannah actually dead, for better or worse. Geralt had suffered the duchesses wrath and come out the other side to discover, somewhat to his surprise, that Corvo Bianco was still his. Ciri was with Emhyr, the two of them bringing the empire and the north to heel at the same time, and there was little Geralt could do for her now except love her dearly. Yennefer--Yennefer was...not his to worry about any more. The north wind blew through Kaer Morhen unchallenged. None of them needed him any more.

But Regis was here. Marlene was here. For the moment, even Dandelion was here. He’d scarcely looked at the contracts on the message boards he passed, except to see that they existed. Knights errant were no replacement for a witcher.

“It’s nearly fall,” he finally said. “Think I’ll stay put for a while. At least through winter.”

B.B. sagged slightly as the tension drained away. “Very good then, sir. Very good indeed.”

Maybe he’d get a few paintings for the walls. Work on exploring the uses of that lab in the cellar. Pull some weeds between contracts. The guest room was looking great now. Maybe he’d track down Eskel. Tell him, “Hey. Spend the winter at my home.”

**Author's Note:**

> The idea of "home" means a lot to me, and I think it would be a deeply complicated idea for Geralt, but one he might find he craves more than he realized.


End file.
